◤ prologue: ❛ do you understand me, greer? ❜ ◢

✧

         "DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, GREER?"

Tears ran down her cheeks, mouth agape, staring at the body frozen in front of her. Seconds ago, the body had life – no, not the body, the person. Morgan Lee was a person, and she had been living just seconds ago, and now her body was still in a way it would remain forever.

Morgan wasn't going to move anymore, speaking anymore, defy anymore. She was still and silent, and her soul had left the body. Taken from it when she had been murdered. Because it had been murder, and she witnessed it, unable to do anything. No, she just laid on the ground, inching towards Morgan, pleading for it to stop.

But it didn't stop.

Not until now; not until Morgan Lee was dead, and she was left to pick up the pieces. No, not pick them up, but to stare. To watch her die, to watch the life drain from Morgan's eyes as she held eye contact until life left the two glossy doe browns. Morgan had been staring at her, looking at her, unafraid (It's okay, I'm okay) while she had looked on; afraid for the both of them, pleading for her to live.

A force on her cheek knocked her back. Throbbing came from it, and slowly, like the hand wasn't hers, like she couldn't comprehend what was happening in real time with the thoughts in her brain, she cupped her beaten cheek.

"Do you understand me, Greer?"

The voice sounded so far way, but turning her head, she saw that her father was right in front of her, forcing his face into her personal space. She could feel his breath, could see the wild look in his eyes. All she could do was look at him helplessly.

"Stop crying. You're not a child," her father sneered.

Oh, the hand on her cheek was wet. There were tears; she hadn't realized she was crying. She knew she was before, knew well that before Morgan stopped seizing she had been crying, but didn't realize it had continued.

She swallowed, blinking, looking up at her father. "You killed her," it wasn't an accusation, but a whispered statement. Alistair Ainsley towered over Morgan Lee and whipped his wand, roaring the Killing Curse as she looked onward.

The man that had raised her...was now the man who murdered someone right in front of her.

She wasn't a child; she knew that he had killed before. He had spoken of it, grasped her head and forced her to look as he explained. There are vermin in the world, who think they belong with the rest of us, but they don't. Magic is meant for those who are pure; not for miracle mudbloods. They don't have a place here, and we must exterminate them.

It sounded almost logical when he spoke; a justified reason. But he always had a reason; those who stood in his way were problems he had to solve – problems he had to get rid of. People were pawns; either they aided and he kept them alive, or they were foes who needed to be taken off the board.

"Don't waste your tears on her," Alistair shook his head, "She was nothing but a nuisance from the beginning, thinking herself better than us. She thought she could destroy us, but nothing destroys the Ainsleys. Do you understand?"

"I understand," she mustered.

She didn't. She couldn't.

Morgan was fierce in her life; she was stubborn and unwavering, and she was brave. Morgan was brave in the ways she wasn't. The ways she couldn't be. No, Greer was resourceful; she knew the right words to say and the ones to keep to herself. She knew how to stay alive, and she did. Greer was a survivor.

Cowards survived, and the brave died.

"Good," Alistair straightened himself. Then, he offered a hand. She took it, steadying herself, though her knees threatened to bring her on the ground again. She was standing, but Morgan wasn't.

(Morgan would never stand again.)

"I have to leave soon. Until this mess is sorted out, I'll be hiding with some allies. I won't be able to contact you, so don't attempt to reach me. We'll work this out, and soon enough the world will forget her stupid allegations against me," he said, plainly and casually as if he hadn't murdered a teenage girl – the same age as his daughter – less than a half-hour ago.

Turning to him, she had the realization that she didn't want him to solve everything. He wanted to make everyone forget Morgan; to move past with his pristine reputation, squashing any rumors that he would support someone the world deemed evil. He would get his job back at the Ministry, the respect he once had, and life will continue like normal. He would win.

And she didn't want him to win.

She protected him before – she had told Morgan not to speak up, not to publish the article stating to the world that Alistair Ainsley was a Death Eater. She warned the girl, but Morgan didn't listen – she never listened. She stood by her father before, but everything was different now.

Morgan was dead, and not just that, she witnessed it. She saw, and she never wanted it to happen again.

"You'll use the passageway from Honeydukes back to Hogwarts. Tomorrow, start a rumor that Morgan went to meet a boy – I don't care who – at the Shrieking Shack. Let authorities take care of it. They'll find her, and it'll be over. Don't get caught," he continued, perfectly normal, executing the plan as if Morgan didn't matter, had never mattered, and now she was just a pawn off the board.

He continued, listing off what would come next, but she couldn't listen any longer. Her eyes were caught on Morgan's body. A hand grasped her shoulder, squeezing tightly. She had long ago mastered internalizing the wince at the force.

"Do you understand me, Greer?"

A low voice, a growl practically, in her left ear.

"I understand."

✧

THE NEXT NIGHT, when Morgan's body had been found, and a panic spread across Hogwarts, Greer Ainsley found herself in Dumbledore's office of her own accord. No one had come to her directly, but she knew by the whispers that the timing of the article and Morgan's death led people to believe Alistair Ainsley had a hand in it. She didn't look at anyone who whispered.

Her friends crowded her, turning her away from those who looked towards her, and she let them take control. She didn't have the energy to defend herself, not when her every moment was spent remembering how Morgan's body had looked.

Dumbledore didn't question her decision to speak to him, only agreed when she asked. She sat across from him in the spiral office, fear filled in her heart. She would admit some truths, but omit others; if Alistair caught wind that she exposed him in any capacity, she was sure her fate would be worse than Morgan's.

Blood had never meant much to her father, she knew that; she was an extension of him – his legacy and reputation – and if she didn't suit him any longer, she would mean nothing to him.

"I know my father killed Morgan. He sent me a letter saying he would deal with her, but I don't have any proof that he was here, nor do I know where he is. If there's anything I can do, let me know. Morgan didn't deserve to die."